


Religion of the Fields

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Hell, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a month, Dean'll be dead. And there's a lot in his life that he won't see come to harvest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Religion of the Fields

In Iowa, the corn is almost as tall as Sam.

Dean watches it fly by, green and gold as he drives. It's almost ready for the reaper. Just like him.

In a month, he'll be dead. He won't see any of it come to harvest.

Especially not Sam. Won't see what he grows into, what kind of man he's gonna be, after Dean is gone.

He tells himself it doesn't matter: the seeds in Sammy have already been sown--hell, Dean did a lot of the digging himself--and whoever he is for good or ill is probably already set.

And if that's the case, then he can go to his grave in peace, because damn if there's nothing in Sam that he doesn't adore.

He peeks over at him, at the hair falling over his collar, the bitchy line of his jaw. A hint of the only eyes he's ever looked into and really seen himself looking back.

Beautiful. He can say in his head, now. Now that he's as good as dead, a new kind of walking wounded. Sam is beautiful.

Doesn't belie the stupid in him. The reckless. The corny. The stubborn. All that and he's still the most perfect thing that Dean has ever seen. Day in, day out; first thing in the morning and right before they turn out the light. It is, for him, first and foremost: Sam.

The center of the fucking universe, practically.

Sam turns his head and Dean smiles. Can't help it. 

Sam's face, though. It's blank.

And that throws Dean, a little. He's so used to seeing _something_ there, pain or annoyance or pissy strung in his brother's features, but now? Nothing.

"Hey," Dean says. Automatic. "You ok?"

Sam turns away. Silent.

And there are a lot of things that Dean can put up with--a Sears catalogue's worth, at least--but Sam's silent treatment isn't one of them.

"Hey!" he says again. Louder. "Asshat! What the hell's your problem?"

Dean Winchester diplomacy, is that.

Nothing.

And now Dean's panicking a little, because there's one good thing left in his life besides his baby and that's the overgrown boy in the passenger's seat and without Sam, without his idiot brother even making an effort, he might as well lay down for the hellhounds  
now.

Maybe it's the sun in his eyes or the ten hours of driving or the smell of death that never leaves him now, but something gets into his head and refuses to leave. Makes everything blurry, makes the road waver in front of him.

Makes him feel like he wants to weep.

So he does the only logical thing and swings the car down the first dirt road he sees, one that cuts into the corn and leads nowhere, apparently. Leaves them stranded in a sea of green and yellow silk.

He turns the engine off and stops. Waits for Sammy to move, to whine, to fucking twitch.

But still. It's quiet.

And now that Baby is sleeping, it's totally silent. And getting dark.

Dean opens his mouth, a fresh "What's wrong, Sammy?" trapped in his throat, and Sam snaps.

"Don't!" he shouts. "Don't you dare ask me if I'm ok, Dean!"

Dean stops, his jaw still sprung, his tongue ready to turn over "what."

Sam springs forward and hurls himself out of the car, slams the door so hard the windows shudder and races down the road. 

Towards nothing. 

Away from Dean.

And for a minute Dean just watches as Sam's jacket bobs, his stupid hair flies, his arms swing the same way they did when he was five and got freaked out by the German Shepherd in the room next door and trucked it through the parking lot, got almost to the street before Dean caught him, held him, showed him everything was gonna be ok.

Right.

Dean has to run a little faster, this time, to catch up.

He snags Sam's elbow and yanks them both to a stop, sends them both tumbling, skidding over the rocks and the dirt, kicks them headfirst into the corn.

Sam comes up, swearing, and grabs Dean by the collar. Pushes him out into the road. Bangs his head in the dirt, hard.

"Fuck you," he barks. "Fuck you, Dean!" His eyes drip over Dean's face and he's ferocious, feral and aching and it hurts, god, it hurts for Dean to see him like this. To know that he's the one that's done this, to Sam.

But it's better than no Sam at all, than that cold body in the dark and hell, Dean'll take being bitched at any day, over that.

So he doesn't say anything, just lets Sam shake him and grind his hair in the dust and kiss him in these great heaving waves.

They've never done that before, he's never felt Sam's tongue slipping over his own, but that's ok. It's all ok, right then. 

If that's what Sam wants, he can have it.

If it's what Dean's wanted for what feels like his entire life, then he'll take it while he can.

He catches Sam's head in his hands and stills him, slows down the fury and works his way in slow and deep. Steady. 

Sam is like a stack of cinderblocks on his chest, heavy and sullen and needy, god. So fucking needy all the goddamn time and it was only when Dean didn't have that for a few horrible days, that sense of Sam needing him right there, at his side, that he made the worst decision of his life: to die.

The best.

Somehow they make it back to the car without getting too far away from each other's mouths, without Sam's fingers falling too far from Dean's neck, his back, his arms. It's good and dark now, and Dean can barely see the lights passing on the highway and that's good, that's right.

He works Sam out of his jacket, his shirts, his jeans, and pushes him into the backseat. Climbs over him. Claims him. His nails in Sam's skin, his teeth biting grooves in his neck, his fingers reaching for his cock.

And Sam is a fucking mess. His eyes closed, his mouth open like a goddamn fish, his voice in knots as he chants "Dean. Dean. Fuck, please, Dean. _Please_."

He scrabbles at Dean's head, his shoulders, trying to force his head down, and Dean doesn't fight him. Just goes down where he belongs. 

Wraps his fist around Sam's cock and brushes his lips over the head. Gentle. Teasing. 

Sam's back arches, his hips biting into Dean's body. He moans, his voice so deep that Dean can feel more than he hears. It's hot, in the car, almost summer, and the sheen on Sam's body is sweet on Dean's tongue, wet under his palm. 

Sam is beautiful. Beautiful and perfect and broken. A body with a billion pieces that only Dean can reassemble, can stitch together with his hands and his mouth and a thousand whispers of "I've got you, Sammy."

"I know," Sam sobs, his fingers in Dean's hair. "I know I know I know, Dean, I know I know love you love you please. Love you."

Dean swallows him, sucking and stroking, and Sam starts screaming. Something unintelligible, something that's more sound that thought, but Dean can still hear him.

_I know I know I know, Dean. I know._

Who will put Sam back together again, after he's gone?

Who else will know what he's supposed to look like, whole?

Who'll love him as much as Dean does, will give up everything they have for him again and again and again, and ask for nothing in return except Sam, except for the sweet stutter of their name in the dark, in the car, in the middle of a fight and after, over the curve of a beer bottle, in the middle of their favorite song?

_No one. No one. No one._

He jacks Sam through his tears, the water falling over his fingers, and Sam explodes, goes all white under Dean and shudders, shakes, groans as Dean drinks him down, gathers all of Sam that he can to take with him to Hell.

They kiss, after, and Sam's better now. Calmer. Pushes Dean into the seat and spider-crabs over him, folds Dean in his miles of skin. Sam unwraps him, then, just his cock, works him with those long fingers, and he spills himself between their bodies, on Sam's skin and over his denim.

Anoints them both.

"It's late," he says in Sam's ear, and it is. In more ways than one.

**Author's Note:**

> An accidental story inspired by a reader's response to "Not As Easy To Pretend."


End file.
